Coffee in hand, fingers typing. Fingers telling the story dictated by the heart, by sensing. I do not know where we will end up, I do not know what matters most or what you might need to hear. What I know is I am not alone. What I know is the holy reverence of significance: of seeing, feeling, remembering, and noticing as it happens. What I know is holiness is here, now — not a place I will reach but a thing that I am, that flows from me, that spills onto keyboards and dancing fingertips struggling to tell the story of why it matters, why I am here.

I wait to draw out from him the reason for everything. I wait to draw out and to hear; I cannot live without it. I wait, because action without listening is wasted, because I know he is faithful to speak, to come and to bring peace. Alone, I am not — but some days, barely breathing. I wait to draw out from him breath — I wait, to draw from him meaning. I wait, still and expectant of a downpour forthcoming; the work together we will make.